A Tale of Two Cities

Dashing off to catch the northbound train, knowing I was unprepared was one problem.Beyond the first two nights, I hadn't a clue where the next bed was coming from. Settled into my seat and checking the rucksack, to find I was also unequipped (I'd forgotten the maps! ) was another.

Working on the basis of "something will turn up" It did, in my head. Walking up a deserted Princes Street, with the wonderful view of the castle silhouetted against the night sky, I made up my mind. I liked Cities. All this country walking malarkey is fine during the day, but at night...well, it's all about choice and facilities. And so it made perfect sense to base myself in Inverness/Edinburgh and commute on the "City Link" bus service. As to the second problem, following the cycle route through the Cairngorms shouldn't prove to much of a problem, once I'd worked out how to get out of Inverness to reach it.

Peering intently at the map on the wall in the youth hostel the obligingly helpful young assistant came to my rescue. And so, clutching the map he'd printed out for me, I headed 3 miles through the industrial suburbs to reach the "General Wade Military Road" and beyond, through Daviot Woods to pick up the cycle trail. Easy, peasy and I was loving it. Walking through woodlands on a well marked track, what could be better? Three cheers for General Wade! and "So say all of us" said the Highlanders. Commissioned to spend taxpayers money creating a network of straight roads into the Highlands, for the purpose of controlling the marauding clans, Wade succeeded in leaving them a useful transportation system for a future industrial revolution.

So fast forward to the 21st Century, no map was no problem, and with the ever frequent "Route 7" blue cycle signs, it wasn't long before I reached the A9 and the bus stop back to Inverness.

Delighted to find I'd been upgraded to "West Side 2" (which meant it had a cupboard in addition to the bed and chair) I happily stowed my belongings away in the knowledge that this was now "home" for the next three nights and went to find somewhere to eat.

Prepared for an early night, why then wasn't I tucked up by 10pm? Because walking back up the hill to the hostel, passing a restaurant, I was being beckoned in to join a party. Pausing for a second, I made up my mind. Well, it had been a pleasant but quite uneventful day, and after all, I had a "Blog" to write.

So before you could say "Let's go living in the past" I was introduced to the band, and road crew of the "Jethro Tull" 2008 tour. Wow! last seen at Bridlington Spa in 1972, I had to ask the burning question "Could Ian A. still leap around the stage like a demented pixie on pro plus?" Not quite it seemed, and neither could I get to see what he was capable of in 2008, as tomorrow nights concert was sold out.

Tempting as it was to join them for "one for the road" at the Irish Bar I took the mature and sensible decision to carry on up the hill back to my cell.

Sixteen Candles

I didn't hang around in Alness for long as I wanted to get to Evanton. There had been this cutest little internet cafe, run by the local church there. An ideal place to have a mid morning coffee and use the computer (for a ridiculously nominal fee) Well, of course, it wasn't open. But what I did find on the notice board was a poster advertising a local "Walking for Health" group. Hurrah! I wrote down the contact details.

Today was a good day, I seemed to whizz through the miles. Map reading my way through the gradual urban build up towards Inverness, it wasn't long before I spotted the Kessock Bridge on the horizon.

Arriving in town with plenty of time before I had to catch the bus back to London, I had one last, and very important thing to do. As if by perfect timing, I entered into the quiet solitude of the empty Cathedral. Lighting 16 candles, I was alone, watched only by the CCTV cameras above me. Feeling rather guilty for using up the entire candle supply I put £5 in the box, and left, hoping I'd be forgiven for being nearly a week late.

Boarding the bus back to London, I asked the question "Well, are you all up for the next leg,Inverness to Edinburgh?" "Boom! Boom!" they chorused in unison. I'll take that as a yes.

Best laid plans...

Spending time with the cleaner at the Dornoch Inn on a fruitless search for missing headphones was not how I'd planned to spend the first hour of the day. Although we hunted high and low under tables and in rubbish bins, they could not be found. And so, I stomped out of Dornoch in a bad mood. Why? Well today was Sunday and I'd been looking forward to the "Archers Omnibus" followed by "Desert Island Discs" and an afternoon of "Pick of the Pops" (sometimes it was worth putting up with Dale Winters irritatingly smarmy voice if a the "picks" a couple of good years. It would have passed the time on what I knew from last years experience to be a pretty boring route.
To say the walking highlight of the day was lunching in the Co-Op outside Tain tells you all you need to know about today's walk. I had been sort of looking forward to finding "Scotsburn" a place well signposted from Tain, but so elusive even the locals don't seem to know where it is. I must have passed through it, although I can't say I noticed on the the long, albeit quiet, B road to Alness where I catching the bus back to Inverness.

So in the absence of anything interesting to say about today's walk I'll tell you about Dornochs rise to prosperity.

Without the advantage of a herring fishing industry, Dornoch was a deprived and poverty stricken place until the beginning of the 20th Century when some local bright spark said "Hey, we have links, we could have Golf!" And so, a few keen entrepreneurs worked tirelessly to turn Dornoch into a popular golfing destination. Their greatest coup was to attract Andrew Carnegie, a Dunfermline born lad, who'd done alright for himself. When one of the worlds richest men decides to play at Dornoch, King Edward decides to pay it a visit and while he was there clapped a Royal title on it. From there on Dornoch was the "in place" to be, attracting the checked trouser brigade in their droves. Fine hotels and houses were built, so that the Dornoch you see today, with upmarket shops and cafes is a pretty damn smart place to be. I was sorry to leave it, but also looking forward to a night in Inverness., another place with fond memories.

I'd booked a room at the youth hostel and on being handed the key to "East Side 1" the man on the desk apologised for it being so small, and indeed it was. With just enough room for a narrow bed and chair, what did I care? It may have been a cell, but at least it was a single one.

To round the night off, another major blow. Obviously I was not destined to listen to any music today, as tonight, looking forward to a meal and the live music at the "Johnny Fox" pub...Sunday was the bands day off.

The last Witch

It's a good job I erred on the cautious side of conversation this morning because before relating tales of 2007, my fellow guests informed me they hailed from the Orkney Islands. Politely scouring my brain for all the "highlights" of last years coach tour, I quickly bid my farewells and wished them a safe journey home.

Today's "highlight" was the beach walk between Brora and Golspie. Something I hadn't undertaken last year, and all because I'd spotted some youths mucking about and got scared. Determined not to be put off this year, what a treat it turned out to be! A meander of 4 miles along the beach with a slight breeze, made for perfect walking conditions. Spotting three men ahead of me, who looked a "safe 50+" I got them to take a photo of me by the "Broch" just to prove that I really was doing this walk! Perched for lunch on a wall admiring Dunrobin Castle, a fairytale folly, created by William, the Earl of Sutherland as a Summer House (some holiday home!) munching my sandwiches, I thought it was turning out to be a good day.Anticipating the delightful stroll alongside Loch Fleet into Dornoch, where if I was lucky I might spot seals and oyster catchers, the reality of course, was somewhat different. The unpredictable and ever changing weather conditions meant forcing myself through a blizzard of icy rain and sleet to finally reach the safe haven of the Dornoch Inn.

Dried off, I went to visit an old friend, The Dornoch Library (late night opening) and was highly delighted that the lovely librarian from 2007 was still there. Wanting to embrace her warmly and say "Hi, remember me" I held back, because I sensed she wasn't a touchy feely sort of librarian. What I did know, however, was we were of a kindred spirit, both believing that "Rules are meant to be bent" Which translated meant, I could stay on my computer way beyond my allocated 20 minutes as long as no-one else needed it.

The advantage of the extended stay in the library gave me the time to gen up on a bit of local history, and the story of the "Last witch" Strange, but true I must relate...

In 1727 Janet Horne was the last person to be tried and executed for witchcraft, right here, in Dornoch. She'd been accused of turning her daughter into a pony and getting Satan to shoe the girl/pony. They were both arrested and at her trial she was showing signs of madness (as if she hadn't already?) Sentenced to death, she was stripped, tarred and paraded through the streets of Dornoch in a barrel. On reaching the flames, she smiled and waved to the crowds, warming her hands by the very fire she was about to be burnt in. Onlookers were amazed and riveted, and that's when her daughter saw her chance to escape, "trotting" off through the crowds, never to be seen again. As a pony or a girl, who knows?

The Road is long, with many a winding turn...

Last nights meal was superb! Of course, I had to go back to "La Mirage" again because what's good enough for Clarissa D.W. is good enough for me. According to the advert in the window, she rates it in her top 5 fish restaurants. Which is why, remote as Helmsdale is, this place is always humming.

I reluctantly checked out of the B & B, never to know if I was going to miss a great party. From hereon it was onwards and downwards. Today, at least, was going to be a mere stroll of 11 miles to Brora, and as the beginning of the end of the tortuous A9 it should have been a good day. So why, for goodness sake, did it seem so tediously long? Probably because the only highlight was a plaque which marked the spot where the "Last wolf was killed" I was puzzled. How could they be so sure? Did a wolf hold up his forelegs and say "Please don't kill me, I'm the last one!" I doubted it.

Plodding on, what kept me going was the thought that a) I'd be in Dornoch tonight and b) this long trek on the A9 was coming to an end. I may well be trying to promote walking for health, but the only people walking on this road are going about 1000 miles in either direction, and with the locals being ever so keen to leap out and tell you about whose ahead or behind you it's slightly annoying when you never ever actually get to meet them.

The boredom of it all must have slowed my pace because on reaching the outskirts of Brora I had to race to catch the bus to Dornoch. No easy feat with a heavy rucksack on an unusually warm day.

Bathed in the late afternoon sunshine, Cathedral Square, was a photographers dream. Busy snapping away, I was enjoying the peaceful idyll, when from across the road wafted the dulcet tones of an East End oik, bellowing down his mobile phone "It's *******brilliant 'ere mate! I'm just off to the boozer to sink a couple of pints, and when you get 'ere. we'll 'ave a few *******more and get absolutely*******blathered! Supposing he was a builder drafted up from the south to work on one of the many new developments sprouting up here, he may have ruined the moment, but at least I knew not to eat at the Dornoch Inn tonight.

On arrival the B & B was as immaculate, as the owner. I guessed, correctly, he was a golfer, because, along with the pressed trousers and the "Pringle" draped around his shoulders, he had that lightly tanned chiseled Andy Williams look about him. How is it that Golfers seem effortlessly able to pull off that "smart but casual" look, and also somehow get away with wearing pink or yellow sweaters on or off the course?

Horrified, when I related my Wick B & B experience, he said "But didn't you check it's star rating?" "Err, what stars? He shook his head like I was a complete dimwit (true) and proudly informed me he had, until recently, been "The only 4 star B & B in the village"

It was almost a sacrilege to empty the contents of my rucksack into this show home of a bedroom, but I needed a shower (en-suite-of course) and food.

And what a disappointment the alternative pub was. Sticking to the fish theme, I selected "Salmon with a white wine and dill sauce". Putting in my complaint, the waitress stormed off through the swing door to the kitchen "Chef, table number 5 complaining about the sauce" The sauce, or lack of it, was the problem. Too tired and hungry to send it back, we called a truce. I paid up and she didn't get her tip.

.

What a difference a day makes

How well I remembered Helmsdale in 2007. With an hour to spare before catching the bus back to Dornoch, I'd mooched around the village looking for, well , for want of a better word, life! But this was a village in a 50's time warp, Wednesday afternoon meant half day closing and the only place open was the weird, wacky and tacky "La Mirage" restaurant. A favourite haunt of Barbara Cartlands. Photo's of her (and her look-a-like friend, the owner) adorned the walls. But what was more interesting were the strange collection of artefact's around the room. Sipping my tea, looking at a stuffed bear, holding a fish, was indeed a bizarre experience.

And here I was again, eating my fish & chips, under the watchful gaze of the bear. The photo's had gone (sadly, the owner had died last year) but the bear, the pink frilly lampshade and the full size model of Elvis in the window remained. Under new management, I for one, was nostalgically glad that some things hadn't changed.

The next morning, with time to kill before the Dunbeath bus arrived, I took the Helmsdale Town Trail. Yesterday, I'd just had time to snuck into the excellent "Time Span" museum before it closed, and armed with my map, on a beautiful sunny morning, Helmsdale took on a completely different persona. It's amazing what a difference a day makes. I discovered places I'd never noticed last year. The only disappointing discovery was that the "Spar" had closed down. Last year it had enticed me in with it's sandwich board offering all sorts of goods, and "Lot's Lot's more" except, of course, it was closed, being a Wednesday afternoon.

I took in the harbour, the old church and the "Telford Bridge" before meandering through the streets to the bus stop.

Visiting the museum had given me a sense of what life must have been like for these hard working Caithness folk. I hadn't quite realised the extent of the Herring fishing industry. Villages all along the east coast were trawling in bucket loads of fish , Wick being the Daddy of them all, landing up to a staggering 25 million herring a day. It was a tough life, especially for the women. Not only did they have to carry their men to the boats (so they didn't get wet, poor things) they then carried creels weighing up to 112lbs for up to 30 miles to the nearest market. The fishermen, meanwhile, job done, descended on the local hostelries to drink copious amounts of whisky. Not surprisingly, the fishwives were tough fearsome creatures, prone to smoking and swearing,and yet, perversely, extremely moral. So pity the drunken fisherman, staggering home from the pub, facing the wrath of the wife.

Anyway, all of this preamble puts my "challenging walk" with a 15lb pack on my back into perspective.

For today, at least, the rucksack had a day off, as I, the stick, the orange hat and the daysack jumped off the bus in Dunbeath, ready for an easier 15 mile trek back to Helmsdale. With no pressure of keeping to bus timetables, and fired up with a renewed interest in history, I trekked off the road to the Dunbeath Heritage Centre. Yet another closed door, and annoyingly, they should have been open. "April to September" said the sign. Next to the sign was a poster advertising a "gig" A young "Gunn" was performing in a club in Wick. "An eclectic mix of traditional Scottish folk music...rap, reggae, and rock. Sounds interesting, perhaps I should have stayed in Wick after all.

Anyway, no point hanging around with regrets, I had to gear up for the challenge of the "Berriedale Switchback" the Highland drivers equivalent of "Nemesis" at Thorpe Park. The approach looks really scary, but the reality is, it's just a stretch of road that steeply goes up and down, has sharp bends, oh, and teeters on the edge of a cliff. So no, I wouldn't want to be in a car. Walking, as long as your careful not to lean too far over the edge taking stunning photo's, your safely up the other side before you know it.

I was looking forward to the next, and only other, highlight on the road to Helmsdale. "The Badbea Village" (or the remains of) I'd given it a miss last year, but in this years "History Fest" quest I had to go and see just what it was all about. Or did I?

To say the weather is changeable up here is a gross understatement. By the time I got there, a gale force wind was saying "don't go" so I didn't and I'll tell you why.

The Countess of Sutherland who owned all the land around here, decided that sheep farming was the way forward. "Orf my land" she said to all the locals, and with scant regard to their homes and livelihood, "The infamous "Clearances" began. One group of die hards, headed by John Badbea, decided to brave out a living on the cliffs edge. With winds so strong, they not only had to tie down the cattle, but small children as well.

Just imagine the scene...Crofters wife eagerly awaits husband return from a hard days work with exciting news... "Darling, guess what, little Jocasta has just taken her first steps, and she's only 9 months! Quite clearly an early sign of intelligence don't you think?" "That may well be" he replies with a sigh, "but you know what that means don't you? We'll have to tie her down for the next five years. Pour me a large whisky will you, and then I'll go and look for the wooden stakes and some rope"... It was indeed a struggle, and it couldn't last.

By 1903 they gave up and moved out, and now all that remains is a pile of stones and a memorial . Either of which, I didn't see, having been warned by the sign on the A99, if the winds are high, beware! So I did, and stuck to the road.

35 "Irn Bru" cans hanging by the road

Today's topic of conversation over breakfast was: "Red Ken" and the G.L.C. , The Brixton Riots, Wandsworth Council Tax and the storm of '87 and the link is?, we'd both lived in South West London during the '80's.

Wick, grey, cold and miserable was getting on my "Wick" and I muttered my feeble excuses as to why I wasn't, after all, staying another two nights as originally planned-"unexpected arrival of friends in Inverness" and made a quick exit through the door into an attractive town bathed in sunlight and blue sky!

Well, it was too late to change my mind, as last night, in the library, I'd looked, and found on the internet, somewhere else to stay. Making a decision to never again book somewhere without a web address, I'd found alternative accommodation in Helmsdale.

3 miles down the road, carrying the heavy rucksack was the downside of moving B & B's. Accompanied by aching limbs, and a lack of entertainment through the headphones (I'd competed and lost, yet again, against the "Pop Master"contestants on Radio 2 and with nothing of any interest on Radio 4) I was getting bored.

I know! "I'll sing!" How about "I've got a 100 miles to go and that's a long, long way I know, and each and every step I tread, the road just stretches far ahead..." what a very apt tune, unfamiliar to most, with the exception of any 20-22 year old ex Tadworth primary School pupils, as this was a song from the excellent 1997 School production of "The Minotaur Show"

So, what now? Let's play "Count the Cans" I'm sure this litter problem gets worse every year. Considering it was early in the season, the detritus strewn by the road was unbelievable.

Items of clothing, odd, but even odder, one shoe. Now, why throw away one?

Apart from the familiar "Irn Bru" cans, the next most popular throw away item is the "Free CD" given away in most Sunday Newspapers. E.g."Sounds of the Sixties, 12 great hits from this golden era!" turn out to be one or two catchy tunes, and 10 very forgettable ones, which begs the question "Were the sixties really that great?" and out of the window it goes.

With the absence of the OS map (no point in carrying extra weight, when even I can't get lost on the road) I was having to guess how far I'd got. With 21 miles to walk to Dunbeath, and a bus to catch to Helmsdale, I couldn't stroll, that's for sure.

Last year's walk was about people, this years walk was going to be about places and I'd already decided I was going to soak up some local history as I went along. With an average speed of 3 miles an hour, when I came across the sign for "The Hill O' Many Stanes" (only a 1/4 mile detour up a side road) I decided I could afford the time to investigate.

Dating from about 1900 BC, 200 stones were arranged in 22 fan shaped rows. The theory is that they were used for astronomical observations of the moon. The colourful drawing of how it would have looked all those years ago failed to fire my imagination, as I looked at a pile of pebbles. More interestingly, this site also marks the site of a battle between two rival clans, The Keiths and The Gunns. The famous Gunns (of course) won and buried the dead, right here, in rows, marking each one with a stone.

So next stop, The Clan Gunn Heritage Centre, where their motto is "Either peace or war" "You'll find us quite peaceable these days and welcoming rather than warlike" said the brochure. Glad to know that reassuring snippet of information, however what I found was another closed door. "Open May to September" So, what can I tell you about the Gunns? Well, the most famous descendant of the Clan was Neil M Gunn, the 20th Century Scottish novelist, born in 1891 in the Caithness fishing village of Dunbeath. He wrote many novels about the area he lived in all his life. As well as writing, he worked as a civil servant, and must have made a bob or two, to have spawned a Gunn dynasty of entrepreneurial business men, as found on the beach yesterday.Just as well it was closed, as I'd forgotten just how far from Dunbeath this museum was.

Trudging through the hamlets of Latheron and Latheron wheel I started to panic. I had to make that bus! The Highland bus service is brilliant, well used, but not frequent. I'd have a long, long, wait for the next one. Then just over the next hill, there was Dunbeath, nestling in the valley.Phew!

On the bus, a young boy piped up "Are you staying at Grannie's tonight?" According to Grannie, sitting behind him, indeed I was. They'd been shopping in Wick. Getting off the bus, I asked him what he'd bought. "We've been to "Aldi's" he replied, and hadn't they just, as off the bus came Grandad, Mum and the bus driver to empty the contents of the luggage compartment. Wheely suitcases, laundry bags and numerous carrier bags, all full of food supplies. All hands to the handles, so I pitched in as we trundled back to the B & B, luckily, just around the corner. Apparently, they don't have a car, and this big shop was for a big party on Friday night, to which I was also invited.

Feeling very much at home, I was shown to an enormous room, with an equally large bathroom. I was more than ready for a long soak in a hot tub. Ahh bliss!

he